I stepped inside, shivering as a draught blew through the open door and howled down the hall.

I recalled myself as a child, scared witless at the sound of the distant wailing that the wind produced when it blew around the house.

There’s no one here to comfort you now…

Shaking away the depressing thought, I shut the door carefully behind me and ascended the stairs.

As I went up, I looked around the walls – Mama’s paintings were still hanging, untouched and cleaned.

Good old Mrs. McCarthy. She always came over and dusted off the house and straightened out the things out of order; she had obviously continued doing so during my absence.

One particular oil painting caught my eye.

It was of a small, red-headed girl in a pastel yellow dress, standing near a group of rocks, looking out to the sea.

The small child’s steel gray eyes looked happy. Her entire face looked euphoric; every wrinkle of the dress, every sea-foam spray was meticulously painted.

The girl was me.